Subtle Electric Fire
by kyrilu
Summary: Steampunk!AU, Charles/Erik.  Erik worries about heat death and the law of thermodynamics and the end of the universe.  Charles laughs at him and tells him that dark matter will end everything way before that's a problem.
1. Chapter 1

Title: subtle electric fire (1/?)  
>Author: kyrilu<br>Genre: Steampunk/Romance (slash). AU.  
>Fandom: X-Men First Class<br>Pairing: Charles/Erik  
>Rating: PG-13 just to be safe.<br>Summary: Steampunk!AU, Charles/Erik. _ Erik worries about heat death and the law of thermodynamics and the end of the universe. Charles laughs at him and tells him that dark matter will end everything way before that's a problem._  
>an: Okay guys, I have Nanowrimo, and I can't bloody write at all. So yeah. Instead of a clockpunk!original story, and I give you steampunk!xmfc fic. Whether that's a good thing or not, I don't really know. By the way, this is unbetaed, so any mistakes in here are all my fault.

Things quoted: Walt Whitman's 'O You Whom I Often and Silently Come' and 'Copellia's Coffin' sung by Ali Project.

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><p><strong>subtle electric fire<strong>

~an x-men: first class fic~

O you whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you

As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you

Little you know the subtle electric fire that for you sake is playing within me

~Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: O You Whom I Often and Silently Come

* * *

><p><span>part i: the mechanical dreamswhere are they headed?

The clocks whisper into his sleep, marking the time in their little sounds and little hands, not pausing to stop. If they would stop, they would be broken, of course, and that isn't a good thing at all. His mind sings along to the pattern, tick-tock-tick-tock, and he thinks he can hear the other sleepers in the house unconsciously dreaming it.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock," Charles murmurs, but it isn't much of a song at all. He pulls, uncomfortably, at his blue pyjamas, striped with different shades of the little colour: cobalt, azure, turquoise. He reaches for a dress robe and puts it on, wondering why he can't sleep at all.

There is a small transceiver at his bedside; Charles almost unconsciously reaches for it, and fiddles at his dull silver knobs. (He describes it as silver, but it's not really the shining or gleaming at all.) The knobs whirl at his touch, and he sends out his thoughts to sing down the 'ceiver's copper wires, nestled in a tight coil inside.

He feels his thoughts, like minute electric sparks, and they shoot through the machine and are propelled through the air - out the window, out the house, and somewhere far, far away. They sail on the transceiver's waves, transparent raindrops and snowdrops and shooting stars.

Touch.

His thoughts breezes across minds, little fingers dancing in the dark-blue light; the minds whisper their small sleeping secrets to them, but he gently shuts them out.

_Hello, can anyone hear me?_ he says, but he does not expect a reply. He is afraid, and so he draws imaginary prison bars around those minds - he doesn't want to sink too deeply into them. Charles's mind runs across the distance of the sky and the globe, weaving back and forth, back and forth, a tapestry woven of threads of himself.

_Who are you?_ breathes a mind as it feels his spidery touches.

A feeling of surprise flickers through Charles. He says, _Who are you?_

_Erik_, the mind whispers. It presses closes to him, warm and alive: again, that whisper of _Erik_.

The 'ceiver by Charles's bedside suddenly lets out a whirring noise. The circuits inside let out a sizzle, and Charles cries out, pained, as the transceiver burns.

The machine is dead. Erik is gone.

* * *

><p>Raven and Charles slip through the crowds of people, talking softly to each other. Clouds of steam from the passing automobiles gently fill the streets, but the dull glow of the gaslamps light the way for passerby.<p>

"We're going to have to do something," says Raven. Her eyes are in front of her, but they seem not to see, and are concentrated deep in thought. She merely seems to follow her usual, familiar route through the busy London streets, able to bear the heady scent of steam.

Charles shakes his head. "Don't assume the worse, Raven." He tries to smile at her reassuringly.

"Charles," she says witheringly, "do you know see the circus posters decorating the walls and the posts?" She flicks her finger on a gaslamp, tracing the words with a nail. The flyer is titled:

**COME TO THE CIRQUE DU MACHINISTE!**

"It may be a hoax."

Raven glares, and says, "Charles, don't be blind. We have to go." Her fists clench together, baring white knuckles, and she grips at the gaslamp, allowing it to balance her. The gaslamp flickers, and her eyes mirror the blinking light for several seconds.

Charles watches her appearance shift. He can almost hear gears inside of her, turning and turning, repeating the lullaby of the automobiles and autocycles around them. If he squints, he knows that steam is an aura rising around her. With a sigh, he pulls Raven away from the gaslamp, away from the street, and says, "Don't be stupid. Someone might see you."

They are in an alleyway, hidden, for the moment, from the eyes of the world. Raven lets the illusion drop - she is blond-haired and human once again. She repeats, "We have to go."

He looks at her with his eyes - blue and deep and searching - and says, "I know."

* * *

><p>Charles pulls the curtain tent aside, and the red-and-white material swishes behind him. Raven follows his lead. They step into an orange-hued world, the lights like dull fire embers, and steam rising around the stage. They take their seats on cushioned velvet chairs, and wait for the show to begin.<p>

The curtains part. The performers take their places.

But they aren't performers. They are prisoners, branded with blood-red Ms on their faces, chained to the stage with iron chains, locked up in iron cages.

"M is for _machiniste_," murmurs Charles, and Raven gasps as she sees them on stage. The audience roars their approval as the circus players: the Beast, the Banshee, the Havocker, the Dragonfly, and the Darwinist stand for the crowd's amusement.

The ringmaster is a man from a balcony above them - a normal man, a mortal man - and announces their acts one by one. He calls them miracles of science and birth, more modern than the steam machines and gas machines that inhabit the world.

"We have to help them, Charles," whispers Raven in his ear, and he grips at a small transceiver in his pocket (it's always there, all he has to do is touch it) and says, _Yes. But they are guarded._

_They-they are children_, he adds, sadly. _Your age, Raven._

He catches snatches of Raven's thoughts: images of her standing side-by-side with the five circus freaks, dressed in colourful rags like them. _It's all right, Raven. We'll get them out of there._

The show begins.

The Beast touches a wind-up doll, and his feet mimic its metal features, but have more claw-like qualities.

The Banshee touches a stereo, and screams a metal-screech: Charles thinks of the squeaking shrieks of an machine not oiled.

The Havocker throws a metal weapon - ring-shaped and sharp - and it whistles through the air and hits a target's bull's-eye.

The Dragonfly wears an intricate necklace of a dragonfly - and it wiggles and moves at its place on her chest - and silver-wings burst from the girl's back.

At the face of fire, the Darwinist grips at the iron chains around him, which is a mechanism designed to constrict at his every movement, and he solidifies into a statue, switching from metal to metal.

* * *

><p>He and Raven creep into the circus at night. Charles wears a black coat over his grey suit, and presses into the shadows. There is no moon tonight, and by memory, he and Raven tread across the dried grass. The crickets chirp around them, masking the sound of their feet.<p>

Raven holds onto a one of Charles's dark grey transceivers, and her skin takes on the colour. By habit, Charles feels his mind trying to move along the functions that Raven has taken on, to use her as a conductor and a trigger for his powers. But he forces himself to back away, and focuses instead on the silver transceiver in his pocket.

He says to the sleepers, to the channelers just like him: _My name is Charles Xavier. You are not alone. We are coming._ Charles ignores their questions and their bewildered thank-yous and prepares his mind for the next step.

He reaches for the guards and the ringmasters and the other circus performers. Blindly, he flounders with his thoughts and holds them.

Holds their minds still.

Sleep keeps them in stasis, trapped in a prison of slumber, and Charles is engulfed in their frozen dream-thoughts suspended in the moment. He growls at Raven, struggling not to drown, "Go, find them." She nods, tersely, and darts off.

Almost everyone is dreaming about their home life, their circus life, their hopes, their dreams: warped into strange bizarre visions, telling stories in the language of dreams. The ringmaster dreams of money and channelers - trapping them like animals, and laughing at them with a jeering audience. Charles lunges at him, harsh and angry, and the dream seems to shatter a little bit. The action makes him lose concentration for just a minute; the sleepers shuffle in their beds.

But before they are awakened by the escaping performers, Charles grabs at them again. _Concentration. Focus_, he thinks.

Charles and the transceiver shudder in accordance. He thinks he can feel the still dreams, trying to resurface from the depths where he has pushed them.

"Charles, come on!" calls Raven, and he sees her emerging from one of the tents, five people behind her.

The stars wheel above him, high in the sky; even though steam puffs out of tall smoke stacks, the stars are visible. Charles nods, breathes, and lets go, and...

And runs.

The still dreams continue.

The seven channelers tread across the dried grass, and make their way towards a city of steam and machines.

* * *

><p><p>

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

part ii: people are dolls tired from dancing

Erik enters the dim-lighted pub, dressed simply in dull grey slacks and a white t-shirt. He squints, and finally detects the counter, located in the corner behind numerous tables and stools.

Requesting German beer, Erik takes a seat at the bar, sipping carefully at his glass. He says to a man next to him, "Nice place here, isn't it?"

The man raises his head, unsure if Erik's talking to him, and grumbles an agreement. He, too, is sipping German beer, and Erik grins, shark-like, as the glass glints cinnamon-yellow in the light. This bar is musty and dusty, reeking of rust, metal remnants glinting on the unwashed tables and floors like stardust. Erik traces the dust under his fingertips, and the grains cling to him, drawn to his touch.

He rubs the the dust against his fingers, and it feels more like skin and dirt than dust.

Erik says, "I like the automata decor." He nods up at the ceiling, where metal parts hang randomly, suspended on slender wires that look like they might stretch and break at a single pull.

A grunt. "Genuine metals they are, sir," the man says, his speech slightly slurred as he rolls droplets of beer in his mouth.

"I know good metal when I see it," Erik says, and he rolls up his sleeves, revealing a metal-arm band - M - wrapped around his wrist. "Good metal, indeed."

The sound of glass meets his words - the man's bottle of beer drops to the floor, a puddle of shards and alcohol piling the ground. "You-you!"

"It," laughs Erik, raising his glass to the man with false cheer. "I am an 'it' to people like you. A mess of cables on the floor, a scrap pile of parts to be used and recycled. You called me 'it.'" He closes his eyes, and chuckles, thinking of the stink of oils clinging to his body, the stink of rust and metal and wires, caging him and overwhelming him - no, they weren't forces or elements to be fought, they were _him_.

"I felt hands shaping my insides - gears and guts, hearts and batteries, nerves and wires - and could never tell the difference in the end," says Erik. "Those hands were yours."

"It-it wasn't me!" the man screams, rising from his chair and backing away. "I didn't touch you, no, not me; I was just an engineer-"

"Merely following orders, I know," Erik says darkly, and beckons the man towards him. He says, "That's a fine watch you have hanging on your neck. Wonderful chain, yes? It's a semi-machine, actually, designed to adjust itself on its own accord."

"And it makes the most beautiful tick-tocks," he whispers, and his right hand clenches into a fist.

The man sees the movement. "No! No! _No_-" He tries to run but the watch chain is already tightening round his neck; he chokes, and pulls at it desperately, his yells becoming more muffled by the second.

The former engineer collapses in a heap at Erik's feet. Erik kneels down at the man, listening for breathing.

Silence.

No heartbeat, no breaths.

Not even the barest of tick tocks.

* * *

><p>Erik glides his hand across a music box resting on the mantle. There is yet another man before him, spattered with blood and cracked metals, but he spots a wounded chest wheezing, laboured.<p>

As the music box begins to tinkle a little melody, the figure at his feet...stops. Stops, like a hand stilling a spinning dreidel.

(But where, where is Herr Dokter?)

* * *

><p>Erik holds onto the watch between clenched fingers, and lays the music box at rest at his bedside, and dreams.<p>

_Hello, can anyone hear me? Hello?_

_Are you real?_ thinks Erik. _Are you the voice from earlier?_

The voice is literally bursting into a satisfied happiness as it replies back, sounding gleeful and bright that Erik can't help but be slightly amused. _Oh yes, I am quite real; and yes, I am the one from before_, the voice laughs, and flutters gently across his mind. _And you are Erik, am I correct?_

_Erik Lensherr_, he answers, _pleased to meet your acquaintance. But what- who are you? How can you talk to me like this?_

_My name is Charles Xavier. I am a channler, and I believe you are as well. We are what one might call an evolved race. Quite like human beings, but not. We are human beings who slowly began to absorb mechanical traits since our conception, developing into a different sort of species._

Charles continues,_ I can conduct my thoughts using a radio wave transceiver. This allows me to communicate with and read minds. You most likely can do something similarly extraordinary._

Erik thinks,_ I thought I was alone. Ever since I was younger, I could control machines._

(And then Schmidt hid him away in a laboratory. Changed him.

He misses the times when he happily waved his hands at an automata-kite, letting the fabric whip through the wind and the sky; miniature gears whirring smoothly at every swoop of an arm.)

_You're not alone_, Charles tells him. Charles wraps round Erik's mind; Erik feels a warm presence soothing him, quietly, skimming over his thoughts - not exactly reading or touching, but just a small press. _ You're tired, aren't you? You can sleep properly now, Erik Lensherr. I apologise for disturbing your rest. Good night..._

Before Erik can think another word, Charles sends out a thought like a breeze into Erik's mind.

_Sleep._

And Erik does.

* * *

><p>Charles closes his eyes and dreams of a childish hand brushing across the sky, and a kite weaving through the clouds. Beneath those thoughts, rust simmers below the surface - threatening to swamp the scent of dew and grass - but it's just a picked-up memory, after all, and everything fades away.<strong><strong><br>****

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><p>Notes: Meh, this is old stuff I found buried in Google docs. This story probably isn't going to be updated any more. :-


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